


Masks

by drekadair



Category: Forgotten Realms
Genre: Action/Adventure, F/M, Gen, Mystery, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-21
Updated: 2017-05-14
Packaged: 2018-01-05 08:58:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1092034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drekadair/pseuds/drekadair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Vhaeraun's death forces their two faiths to combine, Cavatina and Kâras must work together to solve a murder that appears to have been committed by a Nightshadow, but their mutual mistrust and prejudice may let the killer walk free. They must both learn the meaning of redemption if they are to solve this mystery. Set within the Lady Penitent trilogy, Post-Storm of the Dead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part I: Chapter One

_Would you like my mask?  
Would you like the mirror?_

_You can look at yourself._  
You can look at each other.  
You can look at the face—  
the face of your God.  
\- Loreena McKennit, “Marrakesh Night Market”

|^|^|^|

**Part I:  
Shadow  & Silence**

Cavatina had never been very good at hiding her emotions. By the standards of the surface races she was as inscrutable as any other dark elf, but to other drow what she felt was often all-too-visible. For the first time in her life she was grateful of this, since it meant people stayed out of her way as she stalked through the corridors of the Promenade.

When Qilué had called her to Skullport to receive a new assignment, she had hoped it would be something challenging. After the near-disaster in the Acropolis, she had been thankful for several weeks of rest, but now leisure was growing old and she was ready for excitement. Qilué's assignment, however, promised nothing but tedium and frustration.

She paused in the Cavern of Song, where a handful of priestesses were singing, their swords raised to the point of light on the cavern roof that marked the progress of the moon in the World Above. Up there is was Midwinter's Night, the longest night of the year, and the air would be bitterly cold, but down here it was as mild and unchanging as ever.

Despite Qilué's announcements that Nightshadows were welcome to add their voices to the hymn, none were present. Cavatina supposed Kâras' appearance in the Cavern that day had been to aggravate her, rather than out of any desire to lift his voice in praise to Eilistraee.

Thinking about the Nightshadow made her angry all over again, and she forced herself to stand a moment longer in the Cavern, letting the music soothe her. She needed a level head if she was going to talk to Kâras, or it would be easier than usual for him to provoke her.

When she felt calm enough, she set out from the Cavern of Song with brisk strides. On the opposite side of the Promenade from the Protectors' quarters an unused section of rooms had been turned into quarters for the converted Nightshadows. Cavatina, who had never gone into the area before, thought they seemed barren and lifeless. The Protectors decorated their corridors with murals and carvings, and a central chamber was filled with comfortable furniture for socializing and eating. Although the Nightshadows had a similar chamber, it was completely empty, and their corridors were bare. It was like they didn't care, she thought—or like they didn't intend to stay long.

She pondered the implications of that last thought as she found the correct door and knocked. No one answered. She waited several minutes, and knocked again. When there was still no answer, she tried the handle. It was locked and, knowing Kâras, trapped. 

Cavatina scowled at the door. She knew Kâras was inside; Qilué had told her he was in his rooms. To make sure, she sang a brief song of divination, which only confirmed his location. Surely her pounding would have roused him from Reverie. She considered briefly that he might be hurt and unable to open the door, but quickly dismissed the notion. More likely, she thought, that he was simply ignoring her.

Aware that he had managed to infuriate her before she'd even spoken a word to him, she sang up a shield of moonlight and slammed her foot just to the side of the latch. The door, made of flimsy mushroom stalk, splintered. Cavatina backed away hastily, but was still hit by several darts that zipped out of the doorway. They bounced off her shield and clattered to the floor, their tips gleaming with poison. 

A dark shadow spread out from the doorway, and she backed away further, but it did not follow, only filled a large area of the corridor with inky blackness. Cavatina sang a dispelling, to no effect. With a sigh of irritation, she leaned against the opposite wall and waited for it to Kâras to come out.

A minute passed, then five, and when Kâras still did not appear Cavatina began to worry. Perhaps both Qilué and her divination had been wrong, and he was not in his rooms at all—or perhaps he was lying inside even now, somehow injured or ill. She didn't like Kâras—or any of the other Nightshadows—but since they were on the same side now she couldn't deny him help when he might need it.

She stepped through the darkness cautiously, wondering if Kâras had left any other traps. The moment she crossed the threshold, she was plunged into a silence so deep her ears rang. Blind and deaf, she froze for a moment, heart pounding. She quickly realized the spells were not directed at her, but rather that the entire room was filled with spells of darkness and silence.

She sang another dispelling, feeling her way through the song by the way each note resonated in her body. This time it worked; she still couldn't see, but she could hear her own breathing and the steady beat of her heart. For a moment Cavatina stood there, marveling at the difference between silence and silence.

Before she could try again to dispel the darkness, something struck her in the arm. She cried out and whirled, drawing her sword. It pealed a note of warning as she slashed it blindly through the air. Belatedly, she realized that the singing sword was exactly the wrong weapon for this fight: its singing covered up any revealing noises her opponent made, while giving away her own position like a beacon.

She slashed again, and felt more than heard someone move to avoid the blow. The sword hummed menacingly, and a male voice swore hatefully.

Cavatina hesitated. “Kâras?” she said. His name came out slightly slurred; her lips felt numb.

“Cavatina?” the voice said, and swore again. 

The darkness vanished suddenly. She found herself in a luxurious sitting room filled with thick carpets, overstuffed furniture, and soft draperies—but no Kâras. Cavatina turned, sword raised, and Kâras, who had been standing behind her, jumped away.

“You!” she said, advancing on him. “You _attacked_ me!” Insubordination she expected from him, and could accept up to a point, but an outright attack was something she was far less willing to forgive.

Kâras stood his ground. “You broke into my room,” he snapped. He held an assassin's hollow-pointed dagger in one hand, and she saw that it's tip dripped with blood—her blood.

“You didn't answer you door!” The words came out thickly. Her whole face felt numb now, and a line of numbness ran from her shoulder to the wound in her arm.

“So you _broke down the door?”_

Kâras' mask covered most of his face, but she could almost hear his lip curling as he spoke. She flushed, unwilling to admit she'd been concerned for his safety when faced with his disdain and the pain of the wound he had caused.

The blood rushing to her face left her feeling hot and light-headed. She reached for the back of a nearby couch for support, but overbalanced and fell gracelessly to the floor. Her singing sword fell from her hand and landed noiselessly on the thick carpet.

Kâras knelt beside her a reached for her with the hand not holding his dagger. Cavatina slapped it aside and turned the motion into a hard blow to his jaw. As he reeled, she staggered to her feet, clutching at the couch for support. The room spun wildly around her and her pulse pounded loudly in her ears, but she managed to stay standing.

“Dammit!” Kâras pressed his hand against the side of his face. “I'm trying to help you! You're poisoned.”

She stared at him in disbelief. “You poisoned me?”

“You broke into my room,” he repeated, in a tone that made it clear he thought she was stupid. “I thought you were an enemy.”

“What enemy would attack you here in the Promenade?” she asked. Her tongue and lips refused to work together, and the sentence was mostly unintelligible.

Kâras slid the dagger into a sheath on his wrist. He took a cautious step forward. “You should let me heal you,” he said gently, as if she were a dangerous animal he was trying to soothe. “You'll pass out soon.”

Cavatina's thoughts felt thick and slow. All she could think was that Kâras, a Nightshadow, had attacked and poisoned her, and she could not trust him. “I can heal myself,” she slurred. 

She tried to step away from him, and her vision went dark. When it cleared again, she found herself on the floor, staring up at Kâras as he leaned over her, one hand on her arm and the other brushing his mask. The black fabric shivered as his lips moved, and she felt the numbness recede from her body and her mind.

Cavatina sat up slowly as Kâras took his hand away. She reached out and found the hilt of the singing sword, and Kâras backed away quickly, as though afraid she would attack him. Clearly her face was betraying her emotions again.

“You broke into my room,” he said for the third time. His right hand rubbed his left wrist, close to the sheathed dagger.

Cavatina climbed to her feet and managed to keep her temper in check. “Why didn't you answer your door?”

“I was meditating,” Kâras said.

Her temper slipped a little. “Then you should have had no trouble hearing my knock!”

Kâras narrowed his eyes over the top of his mask. “Every Midwinter,” he said, “the Nightshadows honor their Lord by meditating in a state of total deprivation of the senses, levitating within a globe of silence and darkness for one day and one night. This year,” he continued, and Cavatina thought she heard a trace of bitterness in his voice, “we honor the Masked Lady in the same way. Surely you knew that?”

Cavatina felt heat flood her face. Qilué had told her to wait until tomorrow before finding Kâras, but she hadn't explained why, and Cavatina had ignored the high priestess' instructions. Her first instinct was to lash out, to attack to cover her own ignorance and embarrassment. A few weeks ago she might have, but her recent redemption was still fresh in her mind and she resisted the impulse. Instead, she sheathed the singing sword and turned toward the door. This put her back to Kâras, which she didn't enjoy, but also hid her burning face from him.

“I'll let you get back to your meditation, then.” It wasn't an apology, but it was most she could bring herself to give him. Redemption would only make her bend so far.

“You may as well tell me what you wanted with me,” Kâras said. “Now that my spells are dismissed, I can't cast them again. It would seem my meditations are ended early.”

Cavatina thought her chagrin could not be greater, but it would seem she was wrong. That she had broken into his room for no reason was bad enough; that she had ruined his worship of their mutual deity, however strange to her his method, was worse. She forced herself to turn back towards him, knowing he could clearly see her shamed blush with his heat-vision.

“Lady Qilué sent me. She has an assignment for us.”

“And she wanted you to deliver this assignment today?” Kâras asked sarcastically.

“There's been a murder in the Misty Forest,” Cavatina said, ignoring him. “She wants us to investigate.”

Kâras did not suffer from Cavatina's inability to hide her emotions, but she thought he looked surprised. “Lady Qilué is sending the Slayer of Selvetarm to solve a murder? With a Nightshadow to watch her back?” His eyes crinkled in a smile and added, “Or perhaps it is the other way around. Either way, why does she want us, of all those at her command, to perform this task?”

“There are only two Nightshadows at the Misty Forest shrine, and one or both of them are wrapped up in this somehow. That's why she want you: you're one of the highest-ranking Nightshadows, and she feels this is important.”

“And you? If she doesn't trust me there are any number of other priestesses she could send on this mission.”

“Qilué does trust you,” Cavatina said without thinking, though she wasn't sure it was true. “And I don't know why she chose me.” She couldn't quite keep the bitterness from her voice.

“Is anyone else to accompany us?”

“No. You'll take your orders from me.”

Kâras' eyes narrowed, and she expected an argument, but he only said, “And what is this murder?”

“I don't know,” Cavatina said again. “Lady Qilué didn't tell me. She said she wants us to see the situation without bias.” She turned to the door again, eager to get away from him, and said over her shoulder, “Meet me at the Moonspring at moonrise tomorrow night.”

The broken jam prevented her from latching the door, but Cavatina pulled it closed behind her, and did not look at Kâras as she left.


	2. Part I: Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kâras and Cavatina arrive at the Misty Forest shrine and are confronted with a web of mystery and intrigue.

Kâras trailed behind Cavatina, his wet boots sinking deeply into the snow, and reflected bitterly that Eilistraee's worshipers were fools. To connect their far-flung shrines by a network of portals was a good idea, if you could trust your fellow worshipers—the fact that Vhaeraun's priesthood had never had such a network was a sign of how well they trusted one another—but to use pools of water, when so many shrines were so far north, was madness. Even Lolth's priestesses would not have done such a thing.

His teeth were chattering uncontrollably by the time their guide—a male lay worshiper who had introduced himself as Ralinn—led them to a great tree, as large as five lesser forest giants put together, close to the center of the shrine. Despite the snow that covered every branch, the tree still wore its summer cloak of green leaves. Thin, straight twigs, each the length of his arm, floated in the air in front of the tree like a ladder. The lay worshiper gestured upward.

“We keep the first two rooms for visiting priestess—for visitors. The braziers are lit. If you'd like to warm up and change into dry clothes, I'll let Lady Rowaan know you're here.”

It was politely phrased, but Kâras knew an order when he heard one. So, it seemed, did Cavatina—or perhaps she just had the sense to follow a good suggestion. She thanked Ralinn and began to climb. As he waited for her to clear the ground, Kâras studied their guide. The other male met his eyes boldly and a little aggressively, and Kâras thought Ralinn must have been dedicated to Eilistraee long enough to learn a hatred for Vhaeraun's followers. It was a shame, he thought, that Ralinn had escaped Lolth's lies only to become trapped in the lies of her daughter—lies about equality between the sexes, and about the drow's place in the World Above.

Of course, in the end Vhaeraun's truths counted for nothing now that he was dead. Kâras looked away from Ralinn's hostile gaze and climbed the ladder after Cavatina.

There were two doors set into the massive trunk, one ten feet above the other. Cavatina took the uppermost, so Kâras paused beside the lower door. It was perfectly round, and he could make out a discoloration in the center, where a glyph had been scribed and then later scraped away. He was no wizard, but he thought the glyph was one to dissuade males from touching the door. The scrape looked fresh.

Inside a brazier burned, just as Ralinn had promised, filling the small room with light and warmth. Kâras studied the space with interest. It seemed to have been carved out of a single giant knot in the trunk of the tree, with shelves and benches cut into the sides and a table sprouting from the center of the floor like a mushroom. There were a few simple things, like cushions and blankets and—Kâras was pleased to see this last—a bottle of wine, but the room was empty of personality and clearly meant for visiting rather than living. He thought it looked more like something a surface elf would construct than something made by drow.

He stripped off his sodden clothes and spread them on the table where the heat of the brazier could dry them. After a moment's hesitation, he peeled his mask off as well. From his pack—waterproofed with magic—he took a spare change of clothes and dressed quickly. Still feeling cold, he wrapped himself in one of the blankets and sat on a cushion on the floor, as close to the brazier as he could get. He had lived on the surface before, and could tolerate it, but the Night Above always seemed too hot or too cold.

Someone knocked peremptorily on his door. Kâras hastily tied his mask back on, grimacing as the wet silk clung to face. Before he could reach the door, it opened, revealing Cavatina. She climbed inside without waiting for an invitation and settled on one of the benches.

“Please,” Kâras said dryly. “Make yourself comfortable.”

Cavatina scowled at him. “That's exactly why I wanted to talk to you,” she said darkly. “I've been thinking about this murder. If there really is a Nightshadow involved in this, we can't afford to show a divided front in our investigation. We need to prove that Protectors and Nightshadows can work together, even when there is conflict between us. Your talking back and petty insubordination damages that image of harmony.”

Kâras picked up his blanket from the floor and sat on the bench across from her, forcing his movements to be smooth when his emotions would have made then sharp. He would have liked to return to his place beside the brazier, where it was warmer, but that would have forced him to sit on the floor at her feet and he refused to put himself in such a vulnerable position.

“What you are describing is not harmony,” he said, controlling his anger. “It is submission. You want me to follow your orders, just as you want male to submit to female. But you and I hold equal rank, just as male and female are equal. Why should you not follow my orders?”

Cavatina pressed her lips together. “I'm in charge on this assignment.”

“Did Qilué say so?” When Cavatina did not answer, Kâras continued, “I agree that a unified front is needed, but I am better suited to present it than you.”

Cavatina opened her mouth for an angry retort, but another knock cut her off. She crossed to the door and opened it, letting in a tall female wearing a thick cloak over one of the diaphanous gowns favored by the priestesses. The gown was at odds with her heavy winter boots and the longsword at her hip.

Kâras sized her up as she stood in the doorway, stamping to dislodge snow from her boots. She was young, with the faintest hint of yellow shading her hair. Although she was not nearly as tall as Cavatina, she still stood nearly a head taller than Kâras—and he was not short, for a male. He suppressed a sigh. The Eilistraeean females were all so tall; he was tired of being towered over.

The newcomer bowed to Cavatina, looking a little awed. “Thank you for coming so quickly, Lady Cavataina. I am Rowaan, head priestess of the shrine.”

Cavatina inclined her head in response. “Thank Eilistraee, not us. We merely do what the Goddess commands.” She sounded humble, but Kâras saw her smile faintly, pleased at the younger priestess's admiration. She gestured to him. “This is Kâras, a Black Moon, and lately of the Promenade.”

Rowaan hesitated for a moment, then bowed to him as well—though not quite as deeply. Kâras hid his irritation and returned the greeting with a nod.

“I thought I saw....” Cavatina had turned toward the shelves and was peering into them. “Yes, I did.” She produced a bottle of wine and uncorked it. As she poured three glasses, she said, “Please sit, Rowaan, and tell us about what's happened here.”

Kâras accepted a glass, but only cradled it in his hands; Nightshadows did not eat or drink in public if they could help it. He watched Cavatina curiously as she handed Rowaan another glass glass. She had answered the door herself, and now waited on him and Rowaan with her own hands, both menial tasks he would have expected her to try to foist onto him. He could not understand why she was so insistent on her dominance one moment, then seemingly subservient the next.

Rowaan sipped at the wine. “It happened only last night. One of our priestesses, Aliira, failed to join us for Evensong. That wasn't alarming, of course—no one is required to join the dance—but it was unusual, since she almost always did. One of her friends went to check on her later and found her... gone.”

“Gone?” Cavatina repeated. “Lady Qilué told us there was a murder.”

“There was. Her clothes, her boots, her weapons were all there, and her shirt was torn and stained with blood where she had been stabbed. But her body was gone.”

“You mean,” Cavatina said incredulously, “That someone killed her, undressed her, and then hid her body, but left the bloody evidence behind?”

Rowaan spread her hands helplessly.

“Or,” Kâras said, “the killer disposed of her body with magic.”

“That may be more likely,” Rowaan agreed. “Her underclothes were still inside the outer, as though her body just... disappeared from within them.”

Cavatina was clearly baffled by this. “And you're sure she's dead?”

“Yes, our auguries show she's safely in Eilistraee's domain. But without a body we cannot raise her or speak to her shade to find out what happened.”

“We were told,” Kâras said, “that a Nightshadow was involved somehow.”

“Yes,” Rowaan said, frowning slightly. “There was a dagger in Aliira's room, hollow-pointed and filled with poison, like Nightshadows use. We found it under one of the benches, bloodied. Aliira had a young Nightshadow as consort. When we went to speak with him, he was gone.”

“Gone, but not dead?”

“Yes. Some of his personal possessions were missing from his room. It looks like he fled.”

“Do you know where he fled to?”

“No, we've found no trace of him, though we've searched.” She added, almost reluctantly, “The evidence against him seems clear.”

Now Kâras frowned. “Too clear,” he said. “A poisoned dagger points to a Nightshadow, which is why he would be a fool to use one like this. Foolish Nightshadows don't last long.”

“If he's innocent,” Cavatina countered, “Why did he run?” But she, too, was frowning.

Kâras thought the answer obvious. “He knew no one would believe he wasn't guilty.”

“Once we questioned him with a truth spell his innocence would be proved,” Cavatina argued. “Now that he's run, we can only assume guilt.”

Kâras held his doubts. Truth spells could be foiled by careful wording, and were not always enough to establish innocence—especially with such damning evidence arrayed against the accused. The Nightshadows had their own spells to extract the truth, but they were excruciating for the subject, and he was not certain the Masked Lady would still grant them.

“Either way,” Cavatina continued, “we need to find him. I can't believe he could just disappear without a trace. Are there any druids or surface elves here who would be willing to help in the search?”

Kâras raised his eyebrows, a little impressed despite himself. He wouldn't have thought of asking the other denizens of the forest for help. Of course, for most of his life those others would have tried to kill him on sight.

Rowaan seemed impressed as well. “There may be.” She half-rose from her seat, but the sank down again with a grimace. “No, they'll all be asleep now. I'll send word in the morning.”

“In the meantime,” Cavatina said. “I'd like to see Aliira's room.”

“Yes,” Kâras said quickly, before Cavatina could rise. “But first, Lady Rowaan, please tell me why you really sent to the Promenade for help.”

Cavatina shot him a sharp look, but Kâras ignored her. He watched Rowaan, who stared back at him with slightly startled eyes. Then she looked down into her half-empty cup.

“There are a handful of Nightshadows here at the shrine, most from Jaelre and Auzkovyn. There are many priestesses who were not pleased at the addition of Vhaeraun's clerics to Eilistraee's faithful. There's been tension here between the Nightshadows and those who dislike their presence, and even amongst the priestesses, between those who accept and do not accept them.” She sighed. “Aliira's murder, and her consort's apparent guilt, have aggravated that tension. I sent to Promenade because I need help mending this divide even more than I need help solving this mystery, and I don't think I can do either on my own.” 

Cavatina transferred her sharp look to Rowaan. “Is there no one you trust here at the shrine to help you?”

“Among the priestesses, yes. Among the clerics... no.”

Now both females glanced at Kâras, and he was grateful his mask hid his expression. Had Rowaan explained this to Qilué? Was he really the male Qilué trusted most among the new converts? The thought both troubled and pleased him.

“I'll speak to the other Nightshadows,” he said. Then, to stop them staring at him, he said, “Shall we go?”


	3. Part I: Chapter Three

Cavatina, Rowaan, and Kâras descended from Kâras's room, only to climb back up into another tree. Rowaan, in the lead, paused outside a door freshly inscribed with a warning glyph. 

“We took her armor and sword to be washed by Eilistraee's tears, since there was no body. Other than that, the room is mostly as it was.”

 She dispelled the glyph and opened the door, but climbed further up the floating ladder so the others could enter first.

 Cavatina had to wait to climb through the round doorway, since Kâras had somehow managed to get ahead of her on the ladder. She peered over his shoulder and saw a room not much different than hers or Kâras's, though it looked more lived-in. She tapped her fingers impatiently against the ladder rung while Kâras loitered in the doorway. As soon as he stepped forward she jumped lightly from ladder to sill, but misjudged the distance and bumped into his back when she landed.

 He turned to glare at her, though he had to look up to do it, since he barely came to her shoulder. “Careful!”

 “If you'd moved out of the way—!”

 “I'm trying not to disturb things worse than your ham-fisted sisters already have!”

 She managed to hold back her angry retort, but only barely. “Is there a light?” she said instead.

 Kâras found flint and steel and lit a candle. In the faint light—more than sufficient for drow eyes—she studied the room. On the far side of the table Aliira's clothes lay nested, underclothes within outerclothes, just as Rowaan had described. The fabric and wood beneath it was stained brown with dried blood. A few items lay scattered on the floor, apparently knocked down from the shelves above: a small ceramic figure of a dancing drow, now cracked, and a lap harp, spilled half out of its case. A cup of tea sat on the table, almost full, and next to it, an assassin's dagger, its point bloodied. Nothing else seemed out of place.

 Rowaan joined her in the doorway and they watched as Kâras examined the bloody clothes, the fallen items, the cup. He picked up the dagger and studied it closely.

 “We found the dagger under that bench,” Rowaan said, pointing.

 Kâras glanced up at her. “Are you sure it's Balan's?”

 “No. But it's certainly a Nightshadow's weapon.”

 “I can see that,” Kâras said dryly. He brought the tip to his mask and sniffed it, then laid it back on the table. He began to circle the room, picking up things apparently at random, turning them over in his hands, and setting them down again.

 Cavatina watched with growing frustration. Kâras's words, that he was better suited to lead this assignment than she, rang loudly in her ears. She hunted demons; it was what her mother had trained her to do, and what she had done since adolescence. Kâras had said foolish Nightshadows did not live long; foolish demon hunters didn't, either, and Cavatina was no fool. But this puzzle confounded her. Kâras moved about the room with confidence and competence, apparently sure of what his next move would be, while she stood helplessly in the doorway, not knowing where to even begin.

 A spider scuttled across the floor in front of her and she stomped on it reflexively.

 Kâras looked up at the sound, startled. “What?”

 “Just a spider,” Cavatina said. She ground her foot spitefully into the wood to be sure it was dead, taking out some her own frustration on the arachnid.

 “There seem to be a lot of them here,” Kâras said.

 “They do get inside,” Rowaan said. “Despite our best efforts.”

 “Yes,” Kâras said. “I imagine they do.”

 Cavatina looked at him sharply, wondering at his dry tone, but he had returned to Aliira's clothes and was picking up the shirt. He shook it out with a few quick snaps of his wrists. Several spiders tumbled to the floor and he paused to crush each one deliberately beneath his boot. He laid the shirt on the table to show it to the other two.

 “You see here,” he said, pointing. “At first glance it would appear she was stabbed once, but there are four separate cuts here.”

 “She was stabbed four times?” Cavatina stepped into the room to see better. “And in the front, not the back!”

 “Yes,” Kâras said. “A good assassin will take whatever opportunity is presented to him. That sometimes means a frontal attack—but not usually. And four strikes, when just one would do, is sloppy. If Balan is the killer, and I were in his shoes, I would have waited for a vulnerable moment, then struck just once, from behind.”

 Cavatina looked up from the stained shirt, and knew she could not quite hide the shock and disgust she felt. Beside her, Rowaan wore a similar expression, but she looked horrified instead of disgusted. Cavatina remembered the Crone who had hunted Kâras all the way to the Shilmista Forest, dead from a crossbow bolt through the throat, and wondered how many females he had been consort to that he had killed.

 “If this was an assassination, perhaps he would have done the same,” Cavatina said, keeping her voice even with more self-control than she knew she possessed. “But four thrusts suggests blind anger, not dispassionate precision. Perhaps the boy lost his temper.”

 “Perhaps,” Kâras allowed, though he didn't sound convinced. “In any case, the dagger seems to match the cuts in the cloth. And there does seem to have been a struggle.”

 "The harp,” Cavatina said. “Someone ran into those shelves.”

 “Yes. Someone unexpected. Or unwanted. Or both.”

 “How do you know that?” Rowaan asked.

 For a moment, Cavatina was just as puzzled as Rowaan. Then—“The tea,” she said, cutting off whatever reply Kâras was going to make in her delight that she had solved this one small puzzle. “There's only one cup. And yet—” She strode to the brazier, long cold, and found, as she had expected, a teapot resting on the edge, where Aliira had no doubt set it to keep warm. She lifted the lid and peered inside. “The pot's almost full. She would have poured her visitor a cup of tea if she wanted him to stay.”

 “Or her,” Kâras said.

 “So whoever killed her was an unwelcome visitor,” Rowaan said. “That does seem to make Balan less suspect.”

 “Unless they were quarreling,” Cavatina said. “A consort is not always welcome.”

 “The lady is not always welcome, either,” Kâras countered. “If they quarreled, she may have been the aggressor.”

 There was an edge to his voice that made Cavatina frown at him. “What are you saying?”

 “Only that Nightshadows are not as tame as the males she may have been accustomed to.”

 It took Cavatina a moment to realize what he meant. “You're suggesting Aliira tried to take Balan against his will? That's outrageous!”

 Rowaan looked shocked. “Aliira would never—”

 But Kâras spoke over her. “I find it more likely than the suggestion that a Nightshadow would conduct an assassination in such a sloppy, unprofessional—”

 “And _I_ find it more likely that a Nightshadow would commit murder in cold blood, than a priestess would behave in such a dishonorable—”

 “You yourself said the multiple stabs ruled out cold-blooded anything! Have you already forgotten your own words, or do you only bother with facts when they suit—”

 “Don't you dare twist my words! You may be well-versed in double-meanings and lies but I—”

 “ _Enough!_ ”

 Cavatina and Kâras both fell silent and stared at Rowaan. The young priestess flushed, but kept her eyes raised.

 “Please,” she said, softer. “One of my priestesses is dead. I need your help to find out who killed her. This fighting achieves nothing.”

 Cavatina felt her own face flush. Kâras looked away. After a moment he said, grudgingly, “We don't have enough evidence to know who did this.”

 Cavatina breathed out a sigh of relief, surprised he had come so close to apologizing and thankful that he had done so she didn't have to. “Until we find Balan,” she said, “we may not be able to find more evidence.”

 “Then we need to find him,” Kâras said.

 Finally, Cavatina thought. Something we can agree on. “Rowaan, I'm sure you and your priestesses have made a thorough search of the forest, but I'd like to hear what you've done, perhaps go over some of the ground again.”

 


End file.
